


The Kurst Child

by doppelgranger



Series: The Kurst Child Series [1]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Aged-Up Alex Rider, Aged-Up Character(s), Gen, Not Canon Compliant, OR IS HE, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, alex rider is having a crisis, and yassen is here to help him out, jack and yassen are still alive! yay!, no beta oop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28466238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doppelgranger/pseuds/doppelgranger
Summary: In which Alex encounters a (quite literal but also not quite dead) ghost of his past, and thereupon begins an unexpected chapter of life.Seriously though, he should be used to this by now. Since when has anything involving him ever been remotely predictable?
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich & Alex Rider
Series: The Kurst Child Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107065
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex naïvely thinks his night will be like any other. He quickly realizes that it won't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my first fic after a while so please forgive any inconsistencies, mistakes, or rusty writing ! It's also been a hot minute since I last read the series haha. For the sake of this fic (and maybe more ??) Alex is around 18 and SCORPIA Rising as well as anything after it never happened :) 
> 
> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are appreciated ! Cheers :))

Like any other college student at two o’clock in the morning, Alex Rider lay haphazardly in a sea of research papers, essay resources, and the occasional littering of a paper coffee cup to interrupt the typewritten chaos. His back ached against the hardwood floor and his shoulders were uncomfortably set in a position to best accommodate the bulky and violently neon green casting on his left arm.

So much for a spy’s subtlety.

While he had definitely encountered worse injuries in his short yet remarkably eventful career as a not-quite-legally-enlisted operative at the hands of MI6, this was by far his longest recuperation break to date. Alex wasn’t sure why he was so bothered by the thought. He knew he should be grateful—at least he’d finally get a chance to catch up on all the assignments and end of term papers that he’d quite literally shoved under his bed till further notice. After all, there were only so many excuses his professors would accept before he’d eventually get served an invitation for tea with the Dean of his faculty.

Blinking blearily at the clock that hung over his desk, he groaned. How many happy pills had he been on when he’d decided that 8 a.m classes were the perfect solution to his decimated sleep schedule? Sure, Ian had drilled early morning routine and an appreciation for discipline into him from the very first day they’d shared a roof, but Alex hadn’t quite had the heart to keep up such a practice after his uncle’s death.

Maybe it was anger. Maybe resentment. Maybe rebellion—or possibly a mix of all three. Anything to give him some semblance of control over his life. Learning of Ian’s grooming for Alex to follow in his uncle’s footsteps had been nothing short of a slap on the face. Had he ever had a choice? Had there ever been any free will involved in the decisions he’d made? Was there always a calculated response to his every predisposition—had there ever been even just one that wasn’t? Alex didn’t know. He couldn’t even bring himself to properly reflect lest he be pulled into another three-hour long spiral of headaches and heartaches, alike.

His current residence, a dingy, discount flat, was testament enough to what he’d given up without dispute, believing it all to be for the greater good.

Letting Jack go because he wasn’t around nearly enough to keep her safe.

Selling his home because he’d required some sort of income to pay for his education (MI6 had made it quite clear that as an illegitimate employee, they weren’t required to pay him, much less offer him any sort of worker incentives or benefits). He also really missed the abundance of natural light in his old Chelsea house. There weren’t nearly enough windows at his new place.

Pursuing physiology and sports medicine in college because his constant absences in school made it impossible for his marks to be on par with what was required for any other program. He didn’t exactly hate his field of study, he’d just much rather be doing something else. He wasn't really sure what, though.

He had given and given and given until he was very much alone with nothing more to give. At least he still had Tom. Even if the boy was currently on the other side of the planet documenting some sort of extreme sport or another. At least Tom had gotten the chance to do what he loved. To be happy. To find enough of a purpose that he held onto to it and let it whisk him away, countries at a time.

Even now, finally on a break, surrounded by homework and takeaway cartons, living the life of a normal person his age, he didn’t truly know who he was. Was he too young for a midlife crisis? His estimated lifespan could be counted on his fingers, so eighteen was probably spot-on his midlife mark. Fantastic.

Pulling himself into a crouch, Alex took a long look around him. He had a lecture in six and a half hours but no major papers due for at least another three days. He was halfway done his analysis on a reading assigned in his sports psychology class and a few sentences into his paper on the biomechanics of human movement. All that was left to get started on was a set of drill sheets for mechanical physics and an annotated bibliography for an idea he wanted to pitch in his communications class. That was doable; he’d made good progress tonight.

It was time for a nap.

Alex swiped groggily at his phone to set an alarm for quarter to seven which he knew he’d snooze at least four times before jerking awake half an hour before his class actually started. He was self-aware like that.

He was also too tired to drag himself to his bed but then again, lately, he’d been too tired to do anything more than transport himself to his college and back home again. A side effect of boredom, he liked to tell himself. Nothing else underlying that he should probably be concerned about.

Nope. Nothing at all.

Making himself as comfortable as one could possibly get on a laminated hardwood floor in the middle of winter, Alex rested his casted arm across his chest and burrowed his head into the open pages of what was probably his psychology textbook. It was the thickest one by far—and the most comfortable.

He then risked a hit at the light switch stationed by his desk with a balled-up pair of socks he’d found earlier, and cheered internally as the room’s lights flickered off. Alex bundled himself into his winter coat and curled up to soak in as much of his own body heat as he could. All was good.

Until it wasn’t.

A sudden _blip-blip_ from his phone was his first warning. It jolted him out of whatever drowsy stupor he had lulled off into. To any average person, the sound was normal; at the first listen, it was exactly what one would expect from an iPhone just a few generations behind the current release. But to Alex’s trained ears, the slightly belated pauses between each chirp churned cold, hard dread in the depths of his stomach. It was the frequency he'd prayed to never have to hear.

Someone had just stepped onto his floor, armed with a gun.

And probably more, if his experiences were anything to go by.

He was on his feet in seconds.

Cursing his limited range of mobility, Alex scrambled to reach the makeshift vanity he’d set up by the front door. It was actually quite useful considering the fact that he usually only had a handful of seconds to make sure he looked presentable enough to leave his flat. It also held a few of the gadgets (one of which had been his iPhone) that Smithers had managed to pass to him before he was benched.

Alex grimaced as his hands found the tranq-gun; it was disguised as a second-generation Glock-17 and fit more comfortably in his hand than he’d like to admit. He really, _really_ did not want to use it. It was almost impossible to tell who he’d have to face. He’d pissed off too many people, made too many enemies, and most importantly, he’d been foolish enough to believe that anyone would ever have his back. Except for, of course, Smithers. But really, other than that, he was truly, very much alone.

He was resigned to it. Death was always lurking. Creeping around one corner or another. It didn’t do well to be surprised, especially in his line of work.

The _blip_ -ing of his phone increased in frequency. His guest was getting closer, most likely approaching the front door. There was no other way in except the one window in his living room that faced the Thames; it didn’t even open. For once, he was thankful for the flat’s lack of functionality. Would it be enough to save his life? That was to be seen.

In addition to the gun, phone, and a few other trinkets, Smithers had also left him a small, harmless-looking digital calendar stand. When prompted, it would display the live surveillance feeds of the four closest security cameras. And most definitely _not_ by chance had Alex selected a well-surveilled flat.

Three consecutive power-button presses were all it took for the screen to switch inputs and for his guest to be revealed.

His breath caught in his throat. It was none other than—

—an Amazon delivery man?

On the other side of his door, a moderately built man (Alex guessed Caucasian, though it was hard to tell by the baseball cap that well-obscured his face and hair) cocooned in a thick, standard courier coat and reflective vest, pulled up before his door.

With all the enthusiasm of any graveyard-shift courier, the man lugged a trolley behind him; the cart contained a parcel. Standing at half of Alex’s height and with a width suggesting that the delivery man would have broken his back had he attempted to carry the package up the building, the unassuming cardboard box loomed ominously.

An exaggerated but inaudible huff later, the man let loose his grip and watched impassively as the trolley slumped forward. Without a doubt, he played the part of a courier quite well.

But Alex knew better. This man clearly knew he was being watched.

It would have been a perfectly convincing act, had one disregarded the hour and the fact that Alex was most certainly _not_ expecting a visitor or a package of any sorts.

Unless of course, the Grim Reaper had finally decided to cut whatever cat and mouse chase they’d been playing for almost half a decade, and drop by for a chat as he should have years ago.

Was this the new thing? Did Death now play hide-and-seek and drop by uninvited for impromptu tea parties at the ungodliest hours of the morning.

_Did Death now work as a courier for Amazon?_

Alex snorted inwardly. There was a thought.

A knock at his front door almost had his finger pull the trigger. Two taps from a set of knuckles. Patient, evenly paced, and entirely expected. But Alex still startled.

He mentally scolded himself. What else had he been expecting? The man to kick down his door? What use would a disguise have if that had been the man’s intention to begin with?

Alex opted to stay silent and take deep, calming breaths to bring his racing heart back to its normal rhythm. His back pressed against the scratchy wallpaper that lined the entryway of his flat. The fake Glock was balanced in his right palm; his injured left attempted to hold his wrist, aiding however it could. From his entire left arm, only his fingers had any sort of mobility and even then, the support they provided was meager.

The knock sounded again. Three taps now, and a little more impatient.

In the silence of his flat, the sound was thunderous.

Maybe if he pretended to be asleep the man would go away? To be fair, it was mightily unusual for regular people to receive courier delivered parcels at such an odd time. But of course, Alex was neither a regular person nor was the 'courier' at his door actually there to deliver a parcel.

Silently, Alex cursed MI6’s lack of protocol. What did a benched operative do when a would-be hitman came a-knocking so late in the night?

“Can I help you?” The words irritably escaped his mouth before his brain could stop them.

Oops.

Crawley would hand Alex’s ass to him if he lived to see the man again.

“Amazon delivery for Mr. Alexander Rider.” Came the muffled reply. The man’s voice was perfectly accentless and definitely masculine—but he couldn’t place age or racial origin from those few words alone. From the confidence and lack of a single stutter, Alex somehow got the impression that the man’s address had been rehearsed at least more than once.

Or maybe he was just good at his job.

 _No, definitely rehearsed_. He concluded.

“I daresay you’re rather late,” Alex mused. “Or early. To each their own, I guess.”

This time the other man’s sigh was audible. He must have been close to the door. Alex resisted the urge to spy through the peephole; broken shards of glass in his cornea and the blindness that would result just weren’t worth the risk.

“Mr. Rider, please, I must be on my way. The rest of my parcels will hardly deliver themselves.”

“Busy night?” Alex inquired, making a show of slowly and noisily removing the four deadbolts on his door.

“Quite.”

He snorted. “Somehow I don’t doubt that.”

With a quick glance at the screen on his vanity, Alex confirmed that the not-courier was indeed empty-handed and opened his door the narrow distance that his smallest security latch would allow.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not actually expecting anything.” Alex did risk a peek through the crack. Only the left side of his face and a hint of his shoulder were visible to anyone on the other side of the door. His left fingers brushed the doorjamb and his right hand gently clenched the grip of his Glock. He’d draw it at the slightest suspicious movement.

The man’s front was obscured by a shadow cast from the low-hanging hall light behind him. Alex could hardly make out any defining facial features and the additional cover provided by the baseball cap didn’t help.

“Really,” the man said slowly. “Funny you should say that. From what I can see, this package is clearly addressed to you, Mr. Rider.”

“How do you even know it’s me. How sure are you that I’m this ‘Mr. Rider’ you’re looking for.” Alex replied, words dripping with as much suspicion as he could muster.

“Well,” the courier started blandly. “You didn’t deny it.”

 _Shit_. He hadn’t, had he? Rookie mistake. It wasn’t even his third week off and he was already falling out of practice. Was this why MI6 insisted on keeping him on his toes? The breaks between his missions didn’t normally last anywhere this long.

“You’re out of practice,” he continued at Alex’s embarrassed silence, voicing the boy's thoughts. Alex wasn’t sure if it was disappointment or amusement that he heard. It was hard to detect, but one or the other was definitely there. The man then shifted slightly, allowing a bit more light to reach his face. But not much—not enough that Alex could discern anything remotely memorable. The only thing the boy could process was the fact that this man was definitely informed of his occupation.

At least what he’d just heard confirmed his suspicions. Now he only had to figure out who exactly this man was and how to get away unscathed. Or undead, at the very least.

Easy.

“What do you want.” Alex grit out. It was a statement more than a question because the boy was thoroughly convinced that the man had one job, and one job only.

“I just want to deliver this parcel and do my job, Alex,” Mr-definitely-not-working-for-Amazon said simply.

“Yeah. I’m sure you would. It’s just that,” Alex shrugged his visible shoulder, “I’d much rather you didn’t. Now, who are you?”

“Amazon delivery. Open the door, Mr. Rider.”

“But I’ve already done that. Have you any other demands? Do want some tea? Biscuits?” Alex snarked. “If you’re in such a rush, you can leave the box outside. You’ve already ID-ed me, as it is.”

The man’s eyebrow faintly twitched. “Drop the theatrics. You know what I mean.” Flat, quiet with a hint of irritation. _Good_.

“No. I don’t, actually.”

Alex was not actually expecting the man to dignify him with an answer. It’d be a blatant lie to say he could have predicted what came next.

“You left instructions on your order that indicated you’d require assistance with placing your parcel indoors.” The man said, raising his voice. This was the loudest he’d spoken so far. It was probably an aid to his disguise if anyone was awake enough to witness the exchange currently taking place.

“What.” His brain couldn’t have picked a better time to lag.

“A perfectly acceptable request,” the man continued, undeterred. “With an injury like that.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed instantly. “How—“

He watched as the courier’s eyes drifted innocently towards the sliver of his offensively green casting that had, at some point, made itself visible without his notice. Alex felt his face tighten. Lips pursed, he felt sick. Knowledge of his injury was a devastating handicap.

“Thanks, but I think I’ve changed my mind. Goodnight.“ And on that note, he tried to slam the door shut.

Keyword being ‘tried.’

A quick, slim, and obviously steel-toed shoe forced itself into the gap between the door and its frame before it could successfully close.

“Damn it,” Alex cursed, pushing against the door, and consequently, the shoe. It didn’t seem to make much of a difference to the man, however, as the calendar stand confirmed that he stood in a rather awkward stance but was otherwise unbothered.

Alex was frantic now. All he had was a dysfunctional arm, a room with only one (currently occupied) exit, and a dart gun to take on a fully-armed and probably well-trained hitman. He’d obviously dealt with worse, but as the man mentioned earlier, he was out of practice. Not to mention that a full day’s steady grind of coursework had left him mentally exhausted. His mind was foggy. His thoughts swam and bled into one another, forming a sludge that was neither coherent nor helpful.

He was panicking.

Alex palmed the handle of the fake Glock and took a deep, steadying breath. Then another. And another. His breathing was heavy and he prayed that the other man hadn’t heard him.

He should have known that his luck that evening was shite.

“Please.”

Contrary to the nature of the word, there was no desperation in man’s tone—no hint of any emotion, really—but nonetheless, Alex stopped breathing. Something had changed, and Alex had subconsciously picked up on it. With his thought-processing faculties temporarily out of commission, it took memory and instinct to nail down exactly what bothered him so much at that moment in time.

It wasn’t intonation, it wasn’t emotion, but it felt…familiar.

And then it struck him.

_He knew that voice._

Alex sucked in a sharp breath. The man had definitely heard that.

“Open the door, little Alex.”

This request was much softer. Gentle even. As if the man anticipated exactly the effect he meant to have. And Alex’s muscles obeyed before his brain could beg to differ.

It took him seven seconds to single-handedly undo the latch and release the other two devices that would keep the door secured against intruders.

At the sight of the man before him, Alex opened his mouth, but even that decided to fail him. Nothing came out. He couldn’t form words—hell— _he didn’t even know what to say_.

Every bloody part of his body was hell-bent on betraying him that night.

It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t possible.

 _No_.

Alex had watched the life bleed out of this man, spread across the floor of Air Force One. Alex had watched the light fade from his eyes as he’d slumped against the walls of the aircraft.

_There was absolutely no way._

He had to have been hallucinating.

But even then, the shadow of the man’s cap did nothing to dull the sharpness of his clear, piercing blue eyes. Beneath the baggy, worn, and obviously two-sizes-too-big uniform jacket was a lithe, fit assassin with the grace of an acrobat and the body of a dancer.

“Hello Alex,” Yassen said slowly. “Pardon the intrusion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are appreciated !! Thanks for reading ! Cheers :))


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so a long-overdue conversation ensues...

There wasn’t a word in Alex’s vocabulary to accurately describe how he felt.

Dazed, maybe? Aghast, perhaps. Was the state of his mental health worse than he’d deemed it to be? A hallucination of this calibre was concerning, even in his adamant state of denial.

Standing there shell-shocked, he barely noticed when Yassen gently pushed him aside to make room for the trolley he intended to drag in with him. He only snapped out of his stupor when the steel scaffolding of the cart scraped gratingly against the mental doorframe, resulting in a shriek that rivalled a banshee’s. Faintly, he also registered the feeling of the not-Glock being plucked out of his hand.

He didn’t resist.

Blinking once, twice, Alex finally turned to face the assassin after having stood there staring into nothing for at least half a minute.

“Close your mouth, Alex, you’ll catch flies.”

Scowling, the boy did just that. “My flat isn’t _that_ dirty.”

Yassen just arched a disbelieving eyebrow in response.

Alex flushed. Maybe he had been neglectful of things beyond just his cognitive state.

The assassin didn’t look like he’d aged since the last time the teenage spy had last seen him. Said man was also actively clearing a path in the mess of takeaway cartons and printed sheets. If he was disgusted by the sight before him, he didn’t show it. The only indication that Alex received of Yassen’s disapproval of the flat’s maintenance (or lack thereof) had been the look he’d received earlier.

“You’re looking well for a dead man.” Alex finally said, crossing his arms across his chest. His fingers itched to reach out and confirm that Yassen was indeed corporeal and not a ghost or something equally disappointing. He barely held himself back.

The Russian didn’t respond. Instead, he quickly glanced around. It looked like he was making mental notes of his surrounding. Searching, probably, for bugs, dangers, and the like. Alex hadn’t done that in a while. He certainly was falling out of the habit and he wasn’t sure what to make of that. The boy stood still for what he counted to be seven minutes while he observed Yassen’s quick but frighteningly meticulous scan of the apartment. It was only when the man finally doubled back to the foyer did Alex make his way to the kitchenette to prepare some tea.

“Milk or sugar?” He called over his shoulder when he felt Yassen’s eyes finally settle on his back.

“Neither.” The man answered simply. Then, “How long till your friends at the bank come over?”

Alex poured the steaming water into two cups he’d found at the back of his kitchen cabinets. He’d given them a good wipe-down to ensure he kept any comments from Yassen at bay. “Hard to say.” He responded. “I’d give them anywhere between ten minutes and seventy-two hours.”

“Why the discrepancy?”

Alex didn’t hear anything shuffle. If the man had decided to make a move, there was no doubt he’d be heard. It was hard to stay conspicuous in the loud, plastic-like fabric that Yassen’s disguise required; the fact that he had yet to shed a single garment of his get-up could mean only one thing: He didn’t intend on hanging around very long. Alex instinctively glanced at the digital calendar-stand that now harmlessly displayed the time, date, and an obnoxiously vibrant image of sunflowers and canola fields. He could almost feel Yassen follow his gaze. The suspicion, unspoken, hung heavy in the air.

“Press the power button three times.” He didn’t need a visual on the man to know that he did just that.

He did, however, watch from the corner of his eye as Yassen’s stance sharpened at the revelation of the security feed.

“Surveillance.” Yassen’s tone was flat.

“That’s kind of my job.” Alex snorted. He fought a smile at the unimpressed glare thrown his way.

“Are they watching you?” The assassin asked slowly, seemingly under the impression that the meaning of his last statement hadn’t quite made it through Alex’s thick skull.

Alex shook his head. “Not actively—I doubt they have or ever will.” Like hell would Alex let his employers watch him wallow in his own misery. He’d done his own search of the flat upon renting it a year and a half ago; he’d done another less thorough one after his last mission. He’d found nothing. It wasn’t like he expected to anyway. MI6 didn’t care for him when he wasn’t needed, it was as simple as that.

“Explain.” Yassen’s eyes didn’t leave the fake calendar.

“They’ll only come if I call them.” He paused, unsure if it was in his best interests to continue. It was his apathy that made the decision for him; he carried on. “But even then, the chances of them actually showing up are…slim.”

The assassin nodded once. His gaze swivelled to Alex, resting on the boy as he watched him thoughtfully. “And will you call them?”

“That depends on whether you answer my questions. And believe me, I have _many_.”

“I’d be concerned if you didn’t.” Yassen’s eyes didn’t leave Alex’s as he made himself comfortable leaning against the wall by the door. How smart, an easy exit if he needed one. With a cock of his head, he motioned for Alex to take a seat on the sofa closest to the large Amazon parcel. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

Unsure of what to do with the extra cuppa since Yassen hadn’t made a move to take it, Alex carried it with him and set it on the improvised coffee table (the cardboard box). The two regarded each other for a few seconds. Yassen studied Alex’s behaviour for anything amiss and Alex just took the man in. He was still in disbelief at the sight before him. _Honestly…how?_

He allowed himself to sink into worn cushions and used the cast on his left arm as a support for the cup he’d drink from. It’d be piping hot for at least another two minutes and as far as he could tell, neither of them had the intention of going anywhere for a while. Well, Yassen probably did but Alex could be coercive if he needed to be.

“Okay.” The boy took a deep breath and nodded to himself. “Let’s go with, ‘what the hell?’ for starters. I _saw_ you die. You can’t tell me that didn’t happen—w-we were both there.” _And by the looks of how things turned out, not entirely mentally present._ He stopped himself from adding.

“Looks can be deceiving,” Yassen said easily. The audacity of this man. Didn’t he have any idea what Alex had had to go through after the ordeal? The consistent nightmares had taken months to fade and even now, they’d occasionally make an appearance on his rougher nights.

“Your Amazon disguise certainly wasn’t.” The boy scoffed.

Yassen made a contemplative noise. “You didn’t seem surprised to see me.” He surmised, choosing to ignore the jibe.

“Oh no, I’m definitely in shock—I wasn’t expecting _you_ per se, just some hitman or felon with a grudge.”

“So you know you’re a target and yet you still insist on sitting,” the assassin waved his hand around the room, “here like a duck.”

“You completely butchered that one.” Alex winced, referring to the simple English idiom that the man somehow managed to ruin. It was amazing how easily the flow of an expression could be broken with the misplacement of just two words. At Yassen’s threatening glower he held up his casted hand. “No offence! And I really didn’t have a choice. I tried to find a better place, trust me, but it’s difficult when you’re a minor with a nonexistent income.”

“They still don’t pay you? Or manage your security?” Was there a hint of anger in Yassen’s voice? Disbelief, more likely. Alex _was_ a civil servant. He had been for the past four years, whether the government chose to recognize it or not.

“I’m of age now so they don’t have an excuse anymore. But as you can see,” he mimicked Yassen’s earlier hand gesture, “practically nothing I own is suitable enough for my circumstances.”

“Clearly,” Yassen all but drawled, holding up the tranquillizer not-Glock. “This is insulting enough to look at, let alone touch.”

“Hey, Smithers probably worked really hard on that!” The boy objected. He fought the urge to smack a hand over his mouth at the slip-up of mentioning the engineer’s name. Hopefully, Yassen wouldn’t think too much of it.

“So this gadget-guy is to blame for your explosive tendencies?”

Alex’s eyes widened. He was caught between horrified and bewildered. If Yassen actually knew Smithers, then what else did he know?

The ass-whooping he’d receive from Crawley would be one of a kind.

“Does he normally make it a point to embed explosives in _everything_ he gives you?” The man carried on.

“The not-Glock explodes?” Well, that was news. Useful. Good to know.

Yassen’s eyebrow twitched.

Alex scrambled to switch the topic before the assassin’s thoughts could stray towards demonstrating the applications of a real gun.

“I feel like we’re straying from the topic at hand.” He smiled placatingly, hoping it would deter Yassen from one of his more dangerous moods. “So how are you still alive again? Is resurrection a new special service offered by your previous employers?” If he channelled his inner-Tom, maybe he’d be spared. Tom could bloody well get away with just about anything.

“You were young and naïve. You took me for dead too easily.”

“In hindsight, I don’t think you can fault me for that. I mean, how delusional were you to send me off to _SCORPIA_ of all places? It couldn’t have been an act.” Alex deadpanned. “It might actually be in your favour to still be alive considering how awful I prayed for your afterlife to be.”

“I think you’re forgetting all the times I spared your life. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my intervention on multiple occasions.” Yassen countered. Alex really, _really_ , wanted to smile at how petty the man sounded. He didn’t think he’d ever be so happy to be snarked at. Normally it was him dishing it out on an unappreciative audience.

It was strange but he really appreciated the assassin being here. Being alive. Both him and the assassin. _Alive_. Yassen was right in that sense. There currently wouldn’t be a brooding college spy on a break without the Russian man that had arguably been one of the more prominent father figures in his life (even if either refrained from admitting it). The first few years after Yassen's 'passing' had been difficult. Anger lingered at the edges of every memory concerning the man. It took him time to come to terms with the fact that this was the world he had to become accustomed to. This was his life now. Fingers couldn't be pointed and blame didn't have much of a basis because at the end of the day, every person's common goal was survival; Yassen had fought to survive, albeit, in a much bloodier fashion than most people. Alex was no saint either. This was his life now and there was no point in fighting it any longer. 

“Okay fair,” Alex relented. “But calling _me_ naïve doesn’t reflect too well on yourself. Especially when you consider the fact that it was _your own_ instructions I followed after your alleged death.”

“So it’s true then,” Yassen murmured to himself more than Alex. “You found SCORPIA.”

“Uh-huh. ‘Followed my destiny and all that sparkly shite.” He paused. “I probably shouldn’t have expected much from your lot, but getting sniped on MI6’s doorstep was completely uncalled for.”

“They shot you?” Yassen's tone took on something akin to disbelief. Or as close as the man could possibly get to it.

“Yeah,” Alex nodded slowly, derisively. “It was in the news and everything, hadn’t you heard? If I didn’t know better, I’d reckon you’ve been living under a rock for the last three years.”

“You wouldn’t be entirely incorrect.” The assassin mused. “‘ _On_ a rock’ is more like it.”

“Prison?”

“Private contracting. Although, I do believe their initial intention was imprisonment. Or death.”

Alex snorted without thinking. It took him a few moments to register that Yassen had actually made a joke. Huh, had that ever happened before? He hadn’t been around long enough to know. But by the time it hit him, Yassen was well on his way with continuing his story.

“The medical teams that came to your aid treated me after the crash. I escaped before the local authorities could apprehend me, however. I don’t think they expected me to be back on my feet so quick.”

“Wow, that really inspires my confidence in law enforcement.”

“SCORPIA found me a week later,” Yassen continued, ignoring him. “At first they wanted me dead. It was equally my fault as it was yours for foiling that entire operation; it had been my primary objective to ensure Cray’s success. I failed—and my employers do not tolerate failure.”

Alex narrowed his eyes at Yassen’s choice of wording. As foggy and still in shock as his mind might have been, the assassin had deliberately chosen not to refer to the terrorist organization in the past tense. Nor had he mentioned them to be his _former_ bosses meaning that SCORPIA was still around he was still very much employed.

“Former employers, you mean?” The boy ventured, secretly hoping the assassin would say ‘yes.’

“No.”

“What happened to ‘we never forgive and we never forget’.” Alex mimicked a haunting voice, wiggling his fingers. It was a lame attempt at humour but he was too tired to care. “Weren’t they supposed to kill you for messing up?”

Yassen raised his chin at Alex’s returning theatrics; he recognized sleep deprivation when he saw it. He quickly flicked his eyes at the clock that hung over an overcrowded desk in the corner of the sitting room. Alex’s gaze followed and the assassin watched as the boy’s eyes widened fractionally. They were already stretched open in anticipation at Yassen’s story. The young spy no doubt was hanging off his every word despite his less than pleasant interjections. The hour was odd too. Judging by the sheer mass of papers and books he’d had to make his way through earlier, he didn’t doubt that Alex was greatly occupied by his studies.

Alex internally groaned when he turned his head to see what had caught Yassen’s attention. It was just before three o’clock. Fantastic. He had a class in less than six hours and with the rate at which things were moving, he probably wasn’t going to sleep for any of it. Especially not after a cuppa and conversation like this one. “As happy as I am to see you, can we please hurry this up? I have class and I really can’t afford to miss any more days.” He managed through a muffled yawn.

Humans were generally more honest when physically exhausted. Nonetheless, Yassen was taken aback at Alex’s confession. Alex was _happy_? To see _him_? That was…unexpected to say in the least. The man had brought nothing but misery down on the boy’s life, what reason could he possibly have to be _happy_ about Yassen’s return. The very least he could do was accommodate Alex’s request to speed things along with his story—even if he couldn’t promise Alex’s attendance to class the following day.

“Very well. To answer your question: I was too valuable.” He said with all the humbleness of a saint. “As loathe as they were to admit it, I was, and still am, one of SCORPIA’s greatest assets.”

Then, Yassen hesitated.

Alex was slow to catch on, his sleepiness growing steadily stronger as the night progressed. But he heard the assassin’s voice trail off ever so slightly and that meant something. Something that Yassen wasn’t too keen to touch on. He needed to know. “Yassen?” The boy inquired sharply.

The Russian was quiet for a few moments, contemplating his next move. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. A few seconds passed in silence and then the assassin took a breath. He had decided.

“I recovered, but Cray’s shot was debilitating. I engaged in security detail for SCORPIA’s executive members in exchange for…life.” He looked as if he struggled to put his next thoughts into words. “I worked to live.” For once, Yassen’s face was a conflict of emotions. Embarrassment, anger, and bitterness clashed to form furrowed eyebrows and age lines. It was uncomfortable for Alex to watch. “I could no longer perform to my previous standards but I was still indispensable.”

The boy stayed silent following Yassen’s admission. He had to process what he’d just heard. It made sense. Yassen was definitely an asset. He was talented, amoral, and absolutely lethal. He didn’t seem to age either. It would also explain why Alex hadn’t seen him at Malagosto. Although—

“You’d think they’d make a prodigious person like yourself an instructor at the very least. You know, at Malagosto.” He couldn’t help but ask.

Yassen had to stop himself from noticeably stiffening. He’d all but delivered the young spy into SCORPIA’s hands. Of course they’d put the boy through Malagosto. _But why did it agitate him?_ Alex had made it out alive and that spoke more to his capabilities than anything else. The boy was grown now. Still alive, despite the enemies he’d made along the way. He was competent (although, his efforts with home and self-security were questionable).

“I was as much a liability as I was an asset. Especially with you around.”

Alex outright grinned at that. “Ah, yes. Our infamous encounters. We all know how those ended.”

“Indeed,” Yassen said with an amused look of his own.

Despite the lighter tone of the conversation, something heavy settled in Alex’s stomach. SCORPIA was still around. They may have been lying low, but they were still around. Lurking, waiting to strike. They had a debt to settle and if Yassen was able to locate him, it was only a matter of time before the entire organization did. MI6 had failed to protect him before, surely they could fail again.

“So how’d you find me?” Alex asked, hoping he sounded casual.

“I managed to get in touch with a local contact. They didn’t have much trouble providing a disturbingly thorough report on you.” Yassen explained, making it clear that he didn’t approve of Alex’s lacking security measures.

The boy tilted his head meekly, but his thoughts were racing. “And you did this because…?”

“I was in the dark for too long. It was disconcerting.” Yassen blatantly stated. “There was no news of you and it concerned me.”

“Because I’m so awesome and unforgettable?”

“Because you cause a ruckus everywhere you go.” The assassin corrected.

“So won’t SCORPIA be unhappy that you’re here, then?” _Getting involved with me_ , Alex wanted to say.

“My employers are currently incapacitated,” Yassen said shortly.

Alex couldn’t do anything else except blink. _Incapacitated_? There were so many reasons as to why this could be the case (quite a few could be tied to the assassin) but something told him it was not Yassen’s doing. By his employers, was Yassen referring to the entire corporation or just certain executive members? It seemed like Yassen’s presence only brought more questions rather than answers.

“Alright,” Alex started. “Okay. Uh—let me rephrase… _Why_ did you find me?”

“I’ll get there shortly,” Yassen answered. His eyes briefly landed on the abandoned cup of tea sitting on the box. “Your tea is getting cold.”

With a jolt, Alex’s head turned to the now lukewarm drink. “Oh,” was all he said before necking it down and turning his attention back to the man. “Don’t you want some?”

At Yassen’s silent refusal he took the second cup and chugged it down equally as quick. Wiping his mouth, he turned to the Russian with a stung look. “You could have at least told me you weren’t going to drink it when I asked.”

Yassen simply shrugged. Without waiting for any further rebuttal, he went on. “My most recent assignment was to Zeljan Kurst’s personal guard. You may have heard of him?”

“SCORPIA’s chairman. He worked closely with Yu on Operation Reef Encounter.” Alex remembered. He hadn’t actually had the displeasure of meeting the man, however, the information had come to light in his debrief with Jones.

“Indeed,” Yassen affirmed. “Not very long after that, I was assigned to be his escort. Assassination attempts on him and the rest of the board were on the rise as SCORPIA was on the verge of collapse. I assume external forces wanted to accelerate the process. It wasn’t too difficult to evade or stop most of the attacks, however, there was one on Zeljan that went spectacularity wrong.”

“In a good way or bad way?” Alex couldn’t help but ask. It was difficult to discern who’s side Yassen was actually on.

“Good for the world maybe, but quite terrible for Zeljan and his family.”

“I think things for Zeljan’s family were terrible to begin with. Imagine being cursed enough to be a Kurst.” The boy feigned a shudder.

“Infamous Rider wit, lively as ever,” Yassen muttered as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “As I was saying, Zeljan’s weaknesses were few, but no one expected them to be so damagingly personal. The existence of his wife and son were discovered due to an oversight in our technical surveillance. The system was hacked and the perpetrators had access to audio-visual feed within the Kurst compound. The hitmen attacked swiftly—within a week’s time of the breach—and not a single soul saw it coming.” He finished grimly.

“And did you have anything to do with it?” Alex asked, looking to confirm his earlier suspicions.

“No,” he replied with a considering look. “Though I can’t say I would have rejected the opportunity.”

“Ah,” Alex murmured. “So Kurst is dead?”

“Dead.” Yassen agreed. “And with the entire island reduced to rubble, it will be impossible to account for all the bodies.”

“So you came here.” The boy offered. “Because they think you’re actually dead this time.”

“Yes.”

“And you brought a box? For me?”

“Yes.” Yassen answered patiently.

“Should I be concerned?” Alex asked. Morbid curiosity and apprehension battled within him. His heart rate was also starting to pick up again. It wasn’t like Yassen was malicious enough to pack up the bones of his captors or bosses just to prove a point. Right?

“That depends.” The assassin was unreadable.

“On what?”

“On how much you trust me.” _This man had the nerve to look amused._

“Well, you’re certainly not making it easy.” Alex scoffed.

Yassen huffed something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and the boy narrows his eyes in accusation. “Just open the box, little Alex.”

And so the boy did just that. He quickly flitted to the kitchenette drawer that held his cooking utensils and grabbed a paring knife. The box wasn’t overly sealed but the packing tape was strong enough that his gnawed-down nails were nowhere near qualified for the job. He was aware of Yassen’s watchful gaze as he approached the box again and took a deep breath to quell his anxiety. He really had absolutely no idea what to expect.

He glanced up one final time at the assassin and at the man’s nod of approval, he began slicing along the crevice where the two opening flaps met.

He made quick work of it, careful not to make any unnecessary or damaging movements. Really, God (and Yassen) knew what was in this box.

Alas, when the flaps sprung free and opened up a gap just large enough for him to cautiously peer inside—

“—Yassen, what the _fuck_.“

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are appreciated! Until next time :)


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